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雪と桜

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Twenty-fourth July Twenty Twelve

Written by smudgi3

July 24, 2012, Tuesday at 00:01

Posted in Dear Diary, Him

Why I keep going back

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Because you’re addicted. Because you know exactly what Edward meant when he called Bella his own “personal brand of heroin” and you’re ashamed to admit you feel that way. Because you’re like a moth to the flame with this person, because you know you’ll get hurt in the end and yet. Because a part of you knows better and another part doesn’t want to; because you’re not ready to all-the-way know better. Because this is a suicide leap but the way they make you feel makes it somehow worth it.

Because they speak your language. Because they understand you even when they don’t. Because on some deep, intrinsic level you just get each other. Because sometimes it seems like they know you better than you know yourself. Because they’ve seen the worst of you and the best; because, regardless of how they hurt you, you still feel an inexplicable trust.

Because you’re afraid. You’re afraid you’ll never be loved like that again; you’re afraid no one else will be in tune with you, your moods, the essence of who you are in this necessary specific way. Because you’re afraid you don’t have the capacity to love anyone like that again; afraid all your love energy is spent, afraid you’re incapable of ever emotionally getting it up for anyone else. Because you’ve never been so vulnerable with anyone else and the thought of even trying makes you feel hopeless and tired.

Because you think this time will be different, think that with all the naiveté of someone proposing marriage to their drug addicted mate hoping that’s the move that will cure them. “This time will be different” — you hear people say that and you roll your eyes so loud you wake up the neighbors but you do exactly the same thing; the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Because you think you can make this work if you try a little harder, if you just push a little more.

Because you believe in it, against your better judgment. Because you think it’s worth it; because you don’t stop to consider the very real possibility that the negatives outweigh the positives. Because you think you owe each other, your history, something still; because you feel inherently bonded and you don’t want to break it. Because you leave logic out of it; because after all, the heart wants what the heart wants and what can you do about that.

Because you live in the past, because you remember who you were once, who they were, and what you had; remember this and want to rewind. Because you think it’s possible to somehow recreate an idealized past in an unsure future. Because you’ve been holding onto the possibility of becoming a whole again for months, for years, safe and protected by the idea that no matter what happens, you’re not alone because of that faint background possibility of Us.

Because you think they’ll change, you’ll change, the circumstances will change; things will somehow mysteriously get better. Because you think this time around you’ll appreciate each other because you know what it’s like to be without. Because you have kids together. Because you have a dog together. Because you have amazing memories together. Because you have an “amor vincit omnia” tattoo. Because Hollywood or literature or God made you believe that love is enough. Because you don’t want to think about the possibility of a world in which it isn’t.

Stolen from:

Why You Keep Coming Back
– Mila Jaroniec, Thought Catalog

Written by smudgi3

July 15, 2012, Sunday at 20:49

Posted in Dear Diary, Him, Insanity

Mine.

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Tongue.

A finger, sometimes two.

Buckling.

Your stubble sank deep into me.

“You like it like this?”

A moan. Pleading.

You didn’t stop. No.

“Mine,” you said, drinking from it.

Yours.

Every drop of it.

Teasing.

Feather-like. Fingertips.

Throbbing.

Your eyes burned deep into mine.

“Use your mouth.”

A groan. Guttural.

I stopped. Waiting.

“Yours,” you said, feeding me with it.

Mine.

Every fucking drop of it.

Written by smudgi3

May 15, 2012, Tuesday at 06:06

Posted in Him, Perversion

Addict.

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That day, the cab I was in drove past your old workplace. As soon as it turned into that narrow little lane, I could see the white building ahead of us, dirty with age and stained by weather. I smiled as we went past the charming dark wood window frame, the one that was right next to where your desk had been.

I remember the first time I was at the other side of the window. I had sat next to you while you busied yourself with unimportant things, obviously showing off your workplace to me, while showing me off to your colleagues at the same time. I could feel their eyes burning through the big Macs that sat between us and them. “She is so your type,” one of them would later say to you. You had told them that you didn’t have a type, but I knew you were secretly proud of me.

I remember taking a cab down to your workplace in the middle of the night, right before a Business Law paper I had to take. I struggled through torts and memorised Salomon v A Salomon & Co Ltd by heart. You were rushing out a production schedule for an upcoming shoot. We worked quietly till dawn, comfortable in the knowledge that our unspoken support for each other encouraged us to keep going. Every word I wrote in that paper was seeped in your love. Until today, I still believe that was why I managed to pass it.

I remember you fucking me as I bent over your desk late one night, sweeping loose sheets of paper and stationery onto the floor when my hands reached out for something to hold on to. I even remember what I was—no, what I wasn’t— wearing that day. I had whispered that little secret into your ear, and it drove you crazy waiting for all your colleagues to finally go home. In fact, it had taken you a really long while before you lost your self-control and swirled my chair around to face you. “I’m going to punish you for that,” you said, your eyes murderous as you knelt before me and lifted up my skirt.

Too soon, I was pulled back to reality when the doorman at my destination opened the cab door and greeted me cheerfully. I smiled just as cheerfully back at him.

Memories.

Some of them are so good it has turned into an addiction.

Written by smudgi3

April 22, 2011, Friday at 04:59

Posted in Cab Rides, Dear Diary, Him

A Day’s Work

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It’s late in the afternoon. We sit across from each other in the study. We share a large, square wooden table. You have your side, I have mine. Your side of the table is untidy; loose sheets of paper, unopened envelopes, a stack of hard disks, a can of beer. Mine is typically filled with all kinds of cute cat paraphernalia, mostly gifts from you. Our cats are tolerating each other’s existence. Yours is languishing on the table between us, while my cat looks for a sun spot on the floor behind me. You look up and catch me staring at you. You wink and we blow silent kisses to each other from over our laptop screens. Then you go back to your work, the pale blue glare deepening the frown between your brows. I start to reply my emails. A while later, a message from you pops up on my screen:

“How’s the weather over there?”

“Dark and cloudy,” I reply, “with a chance of sweet-smelling rain.”

Slowly, our inane conversation turns naughty , until we run out of things to say we want to do to each other.

“Flash me,” you challenge, and I do.

“Fuck me,” I counter, and you smirk.

You tell me to meet you in bed in five. You laugh when I stand up immediately to leave. We waste no time. It doesn’t bother us that our windows are wide opened, that it was still early in the evening, that our neighbours may hear us. In fact, you want them to. We have a hurried, deeply satisfying session. Satiated and fresh from the shower, we then go back to the study and resume our work. For the next two hours, we don’t even look up from our screens. Click clack, click clack. My stomach growls, and your cat wakes from her slumber, the bell on her collar reminding us that it’s past dinner time (“Day One: Rang bell. Cat fucked off”). I stand up to stretch and contemplate cooking dinner, and my cat rubs his cheeks against my right ankle. “Hungry?” you ask as you rise from your chair, and your cat meows. We both laugh at her reply. You say “Let’s go out for dinner, shall we?” as you walk over and plant a big wet kiss on my lips. You turn to head out of the room and I grab at your butt. You give a loud “Whoop!” and the cats run scrambling out of the room.

All in a day’s work.

Written by smudgi3

January 13, 2011, Thursday at 03:45

Posted in Dear Diary, Him, Insight

Convey

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“I cannot convey the extent of my pain. Even if I could adequately explain to another person the things he gave me—the calm, the confidence, the joy, the knowledge—even if I could get this across to another person, it would only be the first step. Then I would have to convey what it is like to have had all this, even if only by chance, and then to have lost it.”

Written by smudgi3

September 25, 2010, Saturday at 02:02

Posted in Him, Perversion

Tagged with

The Glass Essay

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“I can hear little clicks inside my dream.
Night drips its silver tap
down the back.
At 4 am I wake. Thinking

of the man who
left in September.”

Written by smudgi3

September 1, 2010, Wednesday at 18:11

Posted in Braincells, Dear Diary, Him

Tagged with